


Traditions

by fictive_frolic



Series: Steve Rogers One Shots [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Christmas Party, Christmas candy, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, angst-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21937660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictive_frolic/pseuds/fictive_frolic
Summary: Steve helps you keep a tradition
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Reader
Series: Steve Rogers One Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551256
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	Traditions

“Steve stop!” you giggle, “I gotta focus or this pot is gonna boil over.”

“Can’t help it, Y/N,” he said chuckling, “You managed to get chocolate on the side of your neck and I gotta clean it off.” He chuckles and sucks lightly at the aforementioned spot, teasing you gently. 

“Steve!” you scold again, pushing him away lightly. He stops, if only because your pot of sugar and evaporated milk is, indeed, in danger of boiling over and he’d prefer not to spend Christmas Eve in the emergency room because you were burned.

“Who are you making all this for, darlin’?” he asks, watching you drop a spoonful of the molten sugar into a glass of ice-cold water and shaking your head. “For friends,” you explain patiently, “We’re gonna pack it all up and pass it out.”

“Why?”

You fiddle with the temperature on the stove and smile a little, “Mostly because it’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” Steve asks watching. He’s never seen candy made before. His family didn’t have money for this kind of thing when he was growing up.

You nod, “My Grandma and I used to make candy every year and take it to nursing homes and to her friends at church.”

Steve wrapped his arms around you loosely to give you room to work and kissed the side of your head, “I know you miss her,” he soothed, “But do these heathens really deserve all this?” He chuckles to himself and you smile up at him.

“Of course they do,” you answer, “Everyone deserves candy.”

Steve is quiet after that, listening to you singing softly to yourself as you work. He watches you and wonders where your mind is exactly. You look like you might be a million miles from New York, even as you stir and mix and measure with expert precision. Years of practice and an expert teacher, Steve supposed. He’d liked to have met your Grandma. Thanked her. The woman was long dead, but the things she instilled in you were left behind. A soft heart and a hard head. Tough and self-reliant. Brave. You were what he needed in this new time. Blazing trails and showing him the way through the labyrinth of a new century.

You pour this batch of Candy into a waiting glass pan and plunge the pan into a waiting sink full of water to keep it from setting up and make it easier to clean.

“Get to it,” You tell Steve, kissing his cheek.

“Hey, what’d I do to get clean up duty?” he protested as he picked up a rag.

“Until you can learn to read a candy thermometer or measure right, you can clean up pots,” you tell him fondly.

“You don’t use a thermometer,” Steve groused.

“That’s because I wasn’t taught to do it with one.”

“So how do you know if it’s right?”

“That’s what the cup of cold water is for.”

Steve shook his head, “So what next, General?” he teased.

“Next, we make the pralines,” you explain.

“Ooo,” Sam drawls roaming into the kitchen, “Did I hear Pralines?”

“Out,” you order cheerfully.

“C’Mon,” he and Bucky protest in unison. “It smells so good,” Bucky whines.

“And it will keep smelling good. And taste better. When it’s ready to eat,” you say calmly.

“Steve,” Bucky appeals, “You better get a handle on your girl.”

“Nah,” Steve said kissing your cheek, “This is her show. I’m just here to wash pots.”

You pour sugar into the pan and follow that with milk, vanilla, and 3 shots of good bourbon.

Bucky whistled, “Bourbon?”

You wink, “That’s the secret,” you tell them, “Three shots and real vanilla.”

Sam and Bucky both took seats and watched attentively. They seemed to realize that this was something akin to a religious experience. Or at least something desperately important. At least, perhaps they realized that they were watching art happen in real-time. Still, they sat patiently and watched you.

You kept working, steadily getting things as you liked them and worked on getting candy cut and arranged on several plates, “Alright, gentleman,” you say finally, “Everyone take a plate and get it to the commons for the party.”

Bucky whistles, “Jesus, how long have you been at this?” he asks

“Since like… 7am this morning.” you answer stretching.

“Aside from a break at noon,” Steve added.

You nod, you’d taken candy to some of your Grandma’s old friends at the nursing home. It had been bittersweet. A few of them had called you by your mom’s name and one had mistaken you for the version of your Grandma they had known as nurses together in Vietnam. but they were happy to get a little box of goodies. Like the had every year without fail. 

Sam whistled, “With just Steve for help?”

“It used to be my mom, my Grandma and I,” you answer shrugging, “But now I guess it’s just me. And whoever I can wrangle into helping.”

Steve steals a kiss and rubs your shoulders gently, trying to be supportive. The holidays rub you raw in places it’s hard for him to understand. You want to take care of them all, because that’s all you know how to do. Take care of people and love them while you have them. It’s a lesson hard-learned with each loss and each Christmas spent alone or hiding from people who wanted you dead. 

Sam steals a praline and bites into it with a groan, “Damn.” The sound he made was almost obscene and you snorted. “Worth the wait?”

“Babe, no joke. This might be better than my mama’s,” he said nodding.

“I’m gonna tell her you said that,” Bucky yelled over his shoulder, carrying a tray on either hand into the commons.

“Fuck no,” Sam yelped, “She’d have my ass in a sling so quick.”

You wink, “Take her some, Sammy. There’s plenty.”

“Oh shit, for real?”

“What do you think I make all this stuff for? It’s supposed to be shared. Take some home tomorrow and tell her I said ‘Merry Christmas’.”

Sam pulled you into a hug and kissed the side of your head, “Thanks, Y/N,” he said before picking up another tray.

The Party, like always is catered. Everything is delicious but no one so much as touches all the macaroons and expensive candy. Yours is all anyone can talk about. It’s perfect. It’s amazing. It reminds them all of home. Even if it doesn’t taste like anything their family ever ate on Christmas. 

You sit back, leaning against Steve and sip the cup of hot chocolate someone handed to you. This is what Christmas Candy is for. It’s the condensed essence of the best parts of a childhood. The feelings of warmth and light that come with the first snow. The dulcet tones of paper being torn apart and laughter echoing distantly from the kitchen. The stillness of that first sleepy moment on Christmas morning before you vault out of bed and wake up the whole house. Coffee scented kisses on your cheeks when you hand your mom the present you looked for, for weeks and bought with money you’d been saving for forever. It’s meant to be a little bit of magic. Something concrete to hold on to when the sparkle is hard to find. A little piece of comfort against the cold outside. A tradition worth keeping.


End file.
